In a dark room, lined with occupied bunk-beds, I find myself lying awake. The box fan that is precariously sandwiched within the window frame is rattling and there is a nostalgic aroma of a high school locker room in the air. The absence of air-conditioning has intensified the northeastern summer and I lay sweaty atop a sleeping bag on a plastic lined mattress. However, these factors are not the reason I’m awake. In fact, it’s nothing to do with the external. I find myself unable to express in words what I’m feeling to my father. I try to speak, it won’t come out. I roll over and stare into the blackness; nothing. I need to sing. The room is dark, but I gather my glasses and head downstairs. I prop open the front door with a trash can and sit down in the courtyard and release my voice. The sounds that come out express a passion and love I was incapable to do silently. There’s no one here but me and him and I am content. I sing out towards the stars; the words might not be mine but the feelings are from my soul. My heart is once again being pressed towards his son. Sometimes you just have to sing.